Old Scars
by HugsForTheMercy
Summary: Sherlock probes John about a scar on his belly - John tells him about his past abusive relationship. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

The long pale fingers caressed the soft, tanned flesh around John's middle. A white mark which the detective had not registered previously showed itself. Like blood against white snow it was glaringly apparent.

It was a scar Sherlock concluded. A scar which had been made before John had been posted to Afghanistan. This was obvious. The skin had not been tanned before the scar was made, not a war wound. The mark was narrow but had been deep, but not a knife wound.

Sherlock's digits trawled the surrounding flesh of John's warm belly. His eyes surveyed the expanse of skin which lay sleeping beside him. As he continued his investigation of the older doctor's body a dawning realisation struck him. The scars upon John's body were abundant. Perhaps the detective had been mistaken. They could well have been war wounds, shrapnel, debris maybe. Drawing a nail lightly over the biggest Sherlock let out a low breath. A fight. An accident, deliberate?

The next morning as the doctor dressed the detective pondered the story behind the scars, why he hadn't notice them before. He had seen John in a state of undress numerous times since the beginning of their relationship. He did not appear self-conscious about the marks as he did about his shoulder wound…

It was then the answer presented itself. The sandy haired man perched himself on the side of the bed after he had pulled on his trousers, he was yet to dawn his shirt. Initially Sherlock followed the mark with his eyes only for it to be obscured with a small fold of fat around the doctor's waist.

"oh…"

Sherlock let out lightly.

"What ?"

"Sherlock do you want tea? Yes or no?"

John had been speaking for the duration.

"No, John."

Rising to his feet the doctor once again revealed the hidden scar.

It was at this moment that Sherlock clasped onto John's wrist, tugging him back into the bed.

He harshly prodded his finger into the fat sitting on the doctor's stomach. The conundrum had been keeping him awake and now it was starting to irk him greatly.

"What is this ?"

John's face fell, he blushed slightly with embarrassment.

"Yes Sherlock, I know I'm getting fat-"

"What ? No- THIS – look."

He traced the shape of the scar with his finger tip.

The doctor laughed lightly.

"Oh, that, just a scar from ages ago."

Touching it himself he rolled his eyes as he tried to emphasise its trivialness.

"_Never…"_

Sherlock's tone was mocking.

"How did you get it and all of these, spidery ones…"

The nail traced little squiggly lines over John's abdomen.

"Just…"

As the doctor began to speak he was aware of the fact that he must not trip up and spill his heart about the past abusive relationship. A relationship that had resulted in him supporting numerous scars ranging all over his body; from his ankles to his neck.

"Just carelessness really."

He gave a feeble smile and made to get up but Sherlock would not let him away without further probing. Physical as well as mental he suspected.

"Did you do this to yourself John?"

The detective had aimed to make the question sincere - not loaded, he felt that he had succeeded. John's reaction suggested otherwise.

"Don't be so bloody stupid!"

The doctor spat as he rose purposefully, yanking his arm away from Sherlock's grasp.

"Of course I didn't."

"The way you are acting-"

"The way I'm acting ? The way I'M acting ! Why don't you just try minding your own fucking business for once Sherlock ? It's got nothing to do with you. It never has and it never will. Okay ?"

John's chest was heaving yet the detective could not tear his eyes away from the scar.

"And stop looking at it."

The doctor pushed his hand firmly to his side, strong fingers covering the mark. He could feel the anger rising in his chest as he watched Sherlock analyse his body with the grey eyes. But still the eyes continued to search.

"You are ashamed of the mark but won't reveal the story- defiantly not a war wound."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, finishing his observations.

"So someone did this to you. Someone close to you by your reaction, not you dad, you speak fondly of him. Someone outside the family – an old flame -probably someone that you loved. But they didn't love you. Obviously ."

"Of course She didn't bloody love me !"

He had forgotten himself despite his early promise and was now shouting - his voice full of venom.

"She?"

Sherlock asked quietly raising an eyebrow as he looked into the doctor's face.

"Yes Sherlock. _SHE_. There you go… you happy now hmm ? You've got the truth."

"She cut you ?"

The detective's voice was heavy. He knew he shouldn't be making further enquiries but the urge was so strong.

"And burnt me…and hit me…and fucking gouged at me… and… and .."

John was in such a state that he couldn't get breath.

"She abused you."

Standing in the opposite corner of the room from the detective John turned his back and sobbed into his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

"I want chocolate."

"You're not having more chocolate John."

"Why not ?"

"You'll be sick."

"Fuck off."

It was the most they had said to each other for the duration of the day.

John rubbed his palms over his eye sockets, wishing, praying, he had something, or better still somebody to make him feel better.

"How do you know I already had?"

"Look at your thumb."

Sure enough. There it was; the incriminating brown splodge smeared across the ball of his thumb.

Now John wasn't usually one to sulk but. He was irked. He wanted chocolate. He wanted a hug. He wanted for the past to stay the past. But most of all he wanted for his scars to be gone.

Why wouldn't Sherlock just give him the chocolate ?

Sherlock just give him the bloody chocolate !

CHOCOLATE.

Looking down at the remainders of his earlier 'snack' John noticed something unusual. Blue fluff all over his trousers. Most likely from Sherlock's scarf.

"Fuck. I'm gonna have to do something about this."

"Mm."

"I'm turning into the cookie monster."

"Come again ?"

"I'm craving chocolate and growing a layer of blue fluff, it's unnatural."

He considered the comment and laughed to himself, partly due to the naivety of Sherlock, partly due to the affect his observation had had on the atmosphere between the two men; it had lightened it. Or so he had thought.

"Was the cookie monster domestically abused ?"

"No Sherlock ." John had to fight to keep his voice calm. He didn't think that Sherlock would ever sink as low as to torment him about his past …. But apparently….

"No?" The detective eyebrows arched comically. John imagined them as mountaineers scoping the Himalayas.

"No. But he did live in a rubbish bin."

The mountaineers' decent was rapid. Apparently they did not have an appreciation of humour.

"A rubbish bin. Ideal really."

"Dunno a bit crammed, if you ask me."

"Ideal as a metaphor for the state of your past life."

"Sherlo-"

"Discarded like a piece of rubbish. Regarded like a bit of dirt on the bottom of her shoe."

John averted his gaze at this point he didn't know how much longer his mentality would hold out for.

"Sherlock. Stop."

The words were heavy on his tongue. They seemed to materialise in the air like a plume of soot. There intents glaringly obvious.

But Sherlock did not stop. He carried on.

"I. Know John. I know all about it."


	3. Chapter 3

"He did not live in a bin."

"Christ I knew you weren't going to let this go."

"Cookie Monster is remembered for his gluttony and his distinctive voice."

"Right, thanks."

John rubbed at the back of his neck as the detective craned over the computer.

"He promotes childhood obesity."

Why, why, why did he bring this up ? Jesus.

"Sherlock that's nonsense."

"Is it John ?"

"Yes, yes it is. What do you think Ronald Macdonald has been doing for all these years ?"

"Ronald Macdonald ?"

"Never mi-"

"Is that the one who was turned down for presidency?"

The long pale fingers travelled haphazardly through the air, indicating the un-interest the detective had in the matter.

"What ?"

"With the … errrm, polar bears ?"

"Polar bears ? Polar ? What."

Oh god what had he started. He was either messing or was requiring a serious kick up the arse. Three minutes had elapsed since the bear comment, when it finally came to the doctor.

"You meant Al Gore. No AL GORE did not, does not and I doubt ever will promote burgers."

"Oh. Right."

The catlike, crystal blue gaze returned to the monitor.

"Sherlock, will you come away from that thing? We need to speak."

The lid was promptly slammed shut. It was John's laptop after all.

The younger man looked, worried, engaged. Piercingly at the doctor.

"You're ready ?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"I think it's time that I reveal it. See what I'm trying to say Sherlock is… Well this was personal – to me. And you just… Sherlock you over stepped the mark. I know that you. Know. It's just …I think it would be better coming from me, don't you?"

"I do. Take all the time you need John."

It was the first instance in a long time where the two men had actually made eye contact, it was unnerving, yet reassuring to open up to the pale figure in front of him.

"Sherlock, I was young. I didn't have money. I'd left home. Things weren't great. I met Angie one night."

He rose and joined Sherlock on the sofa and took the painfully lanky hand, more for his own comfort that the detective's. Taking a few deep breaths he continued.

"Things were good to start with, they really were."

He eyed the laces in his shoes.

" I don't know why I stayed so long. I thought…she'd get better. You know, calm down a bit. I just told myself she was stressed."

"What did she look like ?"

The question was quiet, merely whispered in John's ear.

"I thought you knew ?"

"I asked Mycroft not to send a picture."

"Mycroft ! You told him. My god, what did you say? "

"John, it's okay. I just said I needed it for a case."

"He doesn't know ?"

"No."  
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."

John wrung his hands and carried on.

"She was, erm? Well she was blonde. Short. Ehm, I dunno, well built."

"Well built ?"

"Well she wasn't, like you…thin..I-mean. Oh god. Not that you're not- well- ugh. You know what I mean."

"Fat."

"No. Not, well not really."

"Why are you defending her? After everything she done to you."

"I'm not !"

"John, you are."

"I – I well Okay. Fine she was fat. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Ehm. She was five years older than me. And she had a broad accent."

John didn't know why he had added the bit about the accent. It wouldn't mean anything to Sherlock but from every instance of abuse the one thing that had stayed with John was the way her diction had ran through his head as she had screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Sherlock she was evil. Nothing else just pure evil."

Numerous times he had envisioned her as a walking Satan.

"I never looked for trouble, I promise you that. But when it came I never ran."

The detective's digits were encasing John's elbow, stroking soothing circles in the crook of his arm.

"How long did you live like this ?"

" Six years Sherlock. " His voice broke and he let the tears seep through. "Six years, of emptiness. I regret every one of them."

"it's okay come on." The young man held the shaking doctor to his chest. Running his fingers through the thick hair. "Shh, shh, It's okay. I've got you, it's okay John."


End file.
